Apocalypse, now.

You are not alone. Don’t fool yourself.

Even when you are on your own, your data surrounds you, a sort of diffuse golden haze that is picked up by electronic devices and relayed to busy people in offices, who file it away. That is to say, it is stored on a computer. It is zipped, it is compressed. The world is perceptibly warming. Eventually, after a certain amount of non-geological time, this data reaches a state in which it can be manipulated without risk of destabilisation.  Homogenised.  The office is a hive of activity. (Aren’t they all?) You’ll be reborn as pure information. Isomorphic. Same as everyone else.

This place is a hothouse. Condensation gathers at the edges of windows. I swear you can hear the plants growing in their stalls. The girl on reception is getting nervous. She drinks constantly. Only water, but there’s a bitterness in the air like gin.

Some time last week David flung back his chair from his desk, reached into his jacket and shot a flare straight through the roof.  Glass shattered, I could see smoke against the sky. Nobody moved. It burst in a garish shower of scarlet and lime. Gunpowder and treason. Help, he shouted before he was escorted off the premises. Remember, remember. The next morning the skylight had been repaired.

The last glacier has melted. Here today, gone tomorrow. At least, says my manager, at least we’ve still got each other.

The city smells of tar and guttersmoke.

Today the sun didn’t set.


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